Lone as I wandered by each cliff and "My patriot son fills an untimely dell, Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train; Or mused where limpid streams, once hallowed, well, Or mouldering ruins mark the sacred fane. Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, The clouds, swift-winged, flew o'er the starry sky, "A weeping country joins a widow's tear; The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The groaning trees untimely shed their The drooping Arts surround their patron's The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, bier, And grateful Science heaves the heartfelt sigh! "I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow : In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her But ah! how hope is born but to expire! breast, And mixed her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow; 'T was Caledonia's trophied shield I viewed : Relentless Fate has laid their guardian low. "My patriot falls,-but shall he lie un sung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name? Her form majestic drooped in pensive No; every Muse shall join her tuneful That like a deathful meteor gleamed That distant years may boast of other WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE Keep His goodness still in view, [This was the first poem produced by Burns after he had taken up his residence at Ellisland. There he fortunately gained the intimacy of Captain Robert Riddel of Glenriddel, a gentleman of great literary, musical, and antiquarian accomplishments. The first six lines the Poet cut with his diamond ring on a pane of glass in the Hermitage. Years afterwards the frame, which was partially fractured, was removed from FriarsCarse, and on being put up to auction was sold for five guineas. Two versions of the poem were penned by Burns, the earlier of which, dated the 28th June, 1788, is immediately subjoined.] FIRST VERSION. THOU whom chance may hither lead, Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lour. Happiness is but a name, Make content and ease thy aim. Ambition is a meteor-gleam; Fame, an idle, restless dream; Peace, the tenderest flower of spring; Pleasures, insects on the wing; Those that sip the dew alone, Make the butterflies thy own; Those that would the bloom devour, Crush the locusts, save the flower. For the future be prepared, Guard, wherever thou canst guard; But thy utmost duly done, Welcome what thou canst not shun. Follies past give thou to air, Make their consequence thy care: Keep the name of Man in mind, And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence, with lowly heart, Him whose wondrous work thou art; Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. [The latter version-which evidently had the Author's preference, and is, everything considered, more highly elaborated-bears the date of December, 1788.] SECOND VERSION. THOU whom chance may hither lead, Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; As youth and love, with sprightly dance, As thy day grows warm and high, As the shades of evening close, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; And teach the sportive younkers round, Thus resigned and quiet, creep Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, OF GLENRIDDEL. [Dated Ellisland, Monday evening, these lines were dashed off extempore, and evidently with the greatest ease, when returning a newspaper which contained some anonymous scribbler's derisive comments upon the Poet's writings, the fame of which not only he himself, but with him all the great authorities in literature then living, knew perfectly well by that time was securely established, and in perpetuity.] YOUR news and review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, With little admiring or blaming ; The papers are barren of home news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming. Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir; But of meet or unmeet, in a fabric complete, I boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness Bestowed on your servant, the Poet; Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, And then all the world, Sir, should know it! EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. [Written shortly after the Poet's first arrival at Ellisland, where he lived in a nomadic way from the 13th of June till towards the end of November, occupying the merest makeshift quarters, until he was enabled to bring his wife and children home to the new farm-house. Half this time, as he wrote to one of his correspondents, he passed with his darling Jean; "and then at lucid intervals," saith he, "I throw my horny fist across my be-cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her hand across the spokes of her spinning-wheel." In one of these lucid intervals, he wrote this animated epistle to his friend Hugh Parker, merchant of Kilmarnock.] IN this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme; Where words ne'er crost the Muse's heckles, Nor limpit in poetic shackles ; A land that prose did never view it, Except when drunk he stacher't through it: Here, ambushed by the chimla cheek, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, I hear it for in vain I leuk. While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose! Was it for this, wi' canny care, For I could lay my bread and kail ROBERT BURNS. FIRST EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY. [Burns had been introduced to Robert Graham at Athole House; and in the letter enclosing this poem, under date September, 1788, the farmerpoet says with courtly grace, "When Lear in Shakspere asks Kent why he wished to be in his service, he answers-- Because you have that in your face which I could like to call master.' For some such reason, sir, do I solicit your patronage." As the result of the present application, Burns asked and obtained, through Mr. Graham's intermediation, his commission as an exciseman.] WHEN Nature her great masterpiece designed, Thou bure the Bard through many a And framed her last, best work, the Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, | A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, The caput mortuum of gross desires Makes a material for mere knights and squires : Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live; groan, Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. The martial phosphorus is taught to But honest Nature is not quite a Turk ; She laughed at first, then felt for her flow: The ordered system fair before her To lay strong hold for help on bounteous A being formed t' amuse his graver Who feel by reason and who give by Admired and praised-and there the (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a homage ends: fool!) |